


the aurors

by bluebeholder



Series: the accidental epic [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Auror Adventures, M/M, Side Story, The Ever-Growing Backstory, This is Getting Out of Hand, Worldbuilding, Young Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 10:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: It is Percival Graves' first day as a Junior Auror in the year 1909. He's desperate to prove himself and thrilled to finally be here. Then he meets his handsome partner, James, and discovers just how easy it is to be distracted from one's duty.





	the aurors

**Author's Note:**

> Fucking hell I can’t believe I have OCs now. God. Save me from myself. I hope you all love James, I think he’s a sweetheart and I love him, and so do enough people that I got needled into writing this. Truetomorrow, almostannette, and Crimson_Voltaire, you are all TERRIBLE enablers, and I blame you entirely for this monstrosity. <3
> 
> So let me put this out there: I give exactly ZERO fucks about canon ages, with the exception of Newt. He’s the axis on which everybody else turns (because he’s the only one whose age makes any kind of sense), and as of the events of the film he is apparently about thirty years old. I’d personally plant Tina and Jacob at about the same age, Queenie slightly younger (twenty-seven or twenty-eight?), and obviously Credence is twenty-four and Percival is about forty-one. Thus, here are their ages at the time of this fic: Percival is twenty-three. Jacob, Newt, and Tina are eleven or twelve. Queenie is about ten. And Credence? He’s a whopping six years old. :D
> 
> Now, put your hands together for the sweetest cinnamon roll in the whole Department of Magical Law Enforcement: Junior Auror Percival Graves!

The year is 1909. Percival Graves is twenty-three years old and he has just graduated Auror Training. It’s his first day on the real part of the job, the first day where he can actually do something, and Percival couldn’t be more excited. It’s all he can do not to just stare around like a first grader at Ilvermorny. He’s been in here before, in the bullpen, but always as a trainee, relegated to carrying stacks of paper and fetching drinks for the overworked Senior Aurors. He has to be serious now, though, because this is his job. This is going to be his life!

No one even really takes notice of him. The scandalous Elizabeth Ray, who wears trousers even when not out in the field, waves to Percival in a friendly fashion as he makes his way across the room toward a slightly dim corner. He’s headed for the desk that he’ll be sharing with another Junior Auror—some James McGuinness, who must have been out of training long enough for Percival not to know who he is. Auror Ray’s much more conventional partner, Anastacia Kelly, sweeps across the room with her hat in one hand and a thick file in the other. She only nods to Percival—notoriously, Auror Kelly is a shy woman, so Percival takes no offense at the lack of greeting. Not that he ever would—he’s the youngest Junior Auror in the room and he is desperate to prove that he belongs here, that he’s meant to be here.

Half of the desk is bare and spotless. The other half is a mess of paper and odd objects. At that half is a turned-back chair. At the bare half is a chair that is turned the right way—presumably his.

As he takes his seat and begins unpacking the meager ornaments for his desk, Percival sees the famous Seraphina Picquery glide into the room, in deep conversation with Senior Auror Bridget O’Brien. Picquery is nearly a Senior Auror, though she’s only twenty-five—she graduated Auror Training at twenty, and has been a rising star in the force ever since. Percival admires and fears her in equal measure, since she’s everything he aspires to be and is terrified he never will be.

A young Auror in disarrayed robes bounds into the room, looks around it once, and heads straight for Percival. Or, rather, the desk. With a slightly panicked haste, Percival bolts to his feet. He doesn’t get a word out before other man is asking, “Percival Graves, right?”

“Right,” Percival says, holding out his hand, trying for equilibrium. “James McGuinness?”

“In the flesh,” he says, flourishing a ridiculous bow. Percival gets a good look at him as James straightens up. He’s got a mop of visibly untamable golden hair and round glasses that look on the verge of falling right off his face. And that smile—even in his nervous state, Percival finds his mouth trying to smile back. “Welcome to the bullpen, Percy.”

“Er, thank you,” Percival says, deciding for the moment not to argue with that terrible nickname.

James flashes him a smile. “Nervous?” he asks in an undertone.

Percival glances around the room, at the legendary figures surrounding him. Ramirez, only a year older than Picquery, on the cusp of becoming the Regional Director of the Western United States out of Los Angeles. Boone, a frontiersman as famous as his great-grandfather Daniel, whose rough presence in the hallowed halls of MACUSA seems as natural as the elegance of any politician. Stormalong, a weather-witch who serves like all her family served before her as the captain of the Tuscarora, MACUSA’s only pretense of a navy. Murphy, whose delicate female presence masks power that could knock down a building, and has before. And more—so many more. He feels very small, in comparison to them. “No,” Percival says.

At that, James laughs. “Don’t worry too much,” he says. “They’re not so frightening, once you get to know them. Only William might bite and I’m pretty sure he’s really a werewolf. Come on, let’s—”

Just then, the door opens and the Director of Magical Security strides into the room. Director Dresden is tall and imposing, in his long leather duster and heavy boots. He’s the best wizard in MACUSA, with power that makes anyone else’s look small by comparison. He’s seen just about everything under the sun and come out alive on the other side. He leads the Aurors better than any Director ever has. Percival practically wants to be the man when he gets older. The room goes silent as he enters and Dresden waves his hand at all of them. “As you were,” he says. “Murphy, O’Brien, in my office in ten. Oh—has anyone actually seen Bob today?”

“He was down in Research, sir,” Picquery volunteers.

“For what?” Dresden demands, looking slightly outraged.

Ray puts her heels up on her desk. “Refreshing his so-called eidetic memory,” she says cheerfully, and Kelly laughs behind her hand. Dresden laughs, too, and suddenly half the Aurors are talking at once.

They all know each other. They’ve been through how many missions together? Percival looks down at the desk, feeling overwhelmed and deeply, deeply alone. Maybe he doesn’t belong here, after all. Maybe Wampus shouldn’t have been his house. Being good in school doesn’t always translate to life in the real world, after all, and he probably isn’t good enough to even—

James elbows him hard in the ribs. “Percy!” he hisses. “Pay attention!”

Percival looks up and almost passes out. The Director of Magical Security is standing two feet away from him. “Uh, Director! I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Dresden laughs. “No need for apologies, Graves,” he says easily. “Just wanted to welcome you to the asylum. McGuinness, take good care of him. From what I hear with all the people talking my ear off about him, Graves is going to best all of us, soon enough.”

“I doubt that, sir,” Percival says.

“Don’t doubt yourself too much,” Dresden says. “Magic’s about will, Graves. Intent. You can’t cast a spell without believing that you can do it.”

Percival doesn’t know what to say, because anything that comes out of his mouth is going to contradict the Director of Magical Security. It’s his first day on the job and he’s about to be fired.

Then Dresden claps him on the shoulder. “Have a little faith in yourself,” he says. And then he’s gone in a swirl of leather duster, shouting for somebody to go find “Bob”, while O’Brien and Murphy long-sufferingly follow in his wake.

“I didn’t know the meaning of somebody’s jaw being on the floor until now,” James says thoughtfully. Percival turns a half-wild look on him and James laughs again, though he sympathetically shoves Percival into a chair to stop him from falling over. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “It’s all right, he takes everyone that way. We like him for a reason, you know.”

Percival looks around the room one more time. It’s a bustle, now, people in motion, preparing to go out into the field, sending a mischief of paper mice scurrying, chattering about everything under the sun. And it feels—it feels right. Maybe he is supposed to be here. Surely all these people can’t be wrong about him, no matter what he thinks of himself. Then he looks at James, who’s watching him with a smile far too fond for someone who just met Percival not ten minutes ago. This time, Percival doesn’t stop himself from smiling back.

***

Every morning for the next two months, Percival arrives at the Woolworth Building and goes straight down to the Department offices. He’s not famous enough, yet, that anyone notices him; and he’s early enough in the morning that there’s no one around to notice him anyway. He gets about fifteen moments of pleasant peace at his desk before the other Aurors begin to arrive, women taking off their decorated hats and men discarding jackets, all ready for whatever the day will bring. Still, no one notices him except by a friendly nod or perhaps a, “Morning, Graves.”

But it’s all right, because, a minute and a half before the moment that the Director walks into the room, James sprints into the room with his hat falling off and his satchel half a second from exploding from all the things shoved into it. And he sees Percival and a smile lights up his face, and that right there is the best moment of Percival’s morning.

Well—the best moment, unless he considers the times that James kicks him under the desk for being too much of a stickler about the endless details of the paperwork they fill out. Or the times they get sent out to handle the small cases that Junior Aurors are considered competent to take on alone, and upon their meager success James beams like they’ve just won the world’s most prestigious award. Or the times when James gives Percival’s shoulder a squeeze as he departs MACUSA for the day, reminding Percival not to stay too late. Or the times that James leans in close to whisper in his ear and Percival feels like he’s going to jump out of his own skin. Or the times that their eyes meet and Percival has to struggle not to just sit there and stare.

He might have a little more affection for James than is really appropriate for a coworker.

***

It’s been quite a successful mission, and Percival and James are flush with success. They’d been allowed to shadow a few of the Senior Aurors on an expedition to break up a thieves’ cartel. They’d been quite creative, handing out pamphlets that were really Portkeys, and instantly transported victims to a location where they’d be robbed blind and sent back. It had been tough to crack, and there’d been a good fight. The Senior Aurors had handled most of it, of course; but when the cartel’s boss had tried to flee it was James and Percival who knocked him out long enough for Ray to get there and finish him.

No one takes any notice of them as they come back into the Woolworth Building. James slings an arm around Percival’s shoulders as they walk across the atrium and looks up at the Magical Threat Exposure Clock. “Look at that. Down a notch, just because of us!”

“It wasn’t really us, James.”

“It was!” James insists. “Listen—can you hear the walls shaking? We’re giants, Percival.”

Percival sighs. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard. We’re still just Junior Aurors.”

“We’ll be giants soon enough,” James says, and his certainty is enough to make Percival believe that, someday, they might be.

***

The restaurant is an absolute din. People are talking and laughing, music is playing, and forks clatter against plates. The smell of pipe tobacco mingles with that of food and alcohol and possibly even fireworks smoke, which should be alarming, but they’re off-duty so James has convinced Percival not to care. It’s by no means a high-class establishment—nothing like the places that Percival is used to going—but right now the plain food and slightly awful beer might as well be ambrosia and nectar.

“—and I’m pretty sure the Director is going to assign us to a big case soon,” James says.

“It’s not as though we’ll be in charge of anything,” Percival feels compelled to point out.

James waves a hand dismissively. “Percy, you’ve got to see the bigger picture,” he says. “One successful mission leads to another! Even if we’re just a little extra sparkle instead of the big explosion.”

Those metaphors. They’re awful and Percival can’t get enough of them.

“You’re too much of an optimist,” Percival says.

“No, I think of myself as a realist,” James says. He leans back in his chair, one elbow hooked over the back, giving the impression that he’ll fall over any moment. “And I think you’re more of an optimist than you let on.”

Percival scoffs. “I’m the gloomiest person in the department!”

“Gloom does not a pessimist make,” James says. He points at Percival and nearly falls off his chair, catching himself at the last second. “If you were a pessimist, you’d have tried to get reassigned to someone else by now.”

“…what?”

James shrugs, and though his smile doesn’t disappear, there’s a sort of sadness in the way he stares past Percival’s shoulder. “You aren’t my first partner.”

“I hope they regret walking out on you,” Percival says, a little viciously. He’s surprised by the vehemence of his feelings, and James seems to be too, if his wide eyes are anything to go by. “You’re one of the best Aurors in the Department. And if they can’t see it—well, their loss. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then James shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Percy,” he says. It’s not the first time Percival has heard James speak softly, but it’s the first time that softness has been directed at him. It makes his heart do something funny that he can’t quite place, something that frightens him, something he wants to feel again.

***

After the fourth time that James loses his glasses in the middle of a mission, Percival starts carrying James’ spare pair around in the breast pocket of his coat. People start to smile knowingly, whenever Percival hands off the glasses so that James doesn’t get shot. Percival is getting better at having nerves of steel, or at least pretending to have them, so he ignores the stares.

He likes seeing James smile, when Percival hands him his glasses. He likes it too much. He tries to ignore it. If he’d been successful in ignoring it he would have stopped carrying James’ spares and helping him in such a personal way.

Percival does not stop any of it.

***

“You,” James snarls, “are so unbelievably stupid—”

Percival coughs hard and wet blood drips out of his mouth. “Save it,” he gasps. He’s dizzy. James is the only reason he isn’t on the ground right now. He’s got no visible injuries but someone hit him square in the chest with some kind of bludgeoning spell. It hurts. Now they’re stumbling down the dark street of some hellhole backwater in the middle of America, trying to find the safe house, and Percival is, quite possibly, dying.

James tightens his grip. “Percy, just hold on,” he says. “We’re not far off now.”

A jag in the road makes Percival stumble and he nearly falls, almost knocking James over too. “Just leave me,” he says, “you’ve got to get to safety.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” James says. He keeps pulling Percival along, stopping only once when Percival starts coughing so hard that black spots waver all around his eyes. Percival knows the only reason he’s still standing is because James is grimly holding onto him, arms around him even though he should have long since fled.

“We’re going to try something,” James says. Percival, breathing raggedly, doesn’t say anything. “I need you to hold onto me.”

Without a second thought Percival obeys, looping his arms around James’ neck and resting his head on his partner’s shoulder. He’s so tired, and what’s the point in pretending now? For a second, he feels James’ hand on the back of his head, holding him close, and why isn’t this happening at a better time, when Percival isn’t nearly dead.

“Don’t let go,” James says. “We’re going to Apparate.”

“What—no—you could Splinch us both—”

James tightens his hold. “Save it,” he says, and turns in place, and the pressure of Apparition is too damn much and Percival can’t breathe—

***

He opens his eyes in a hospital bed. Percival feels remarkably good, considering; the healers must have had some major work to get him patched up. He looks around and is somehow unsurprised to see James, asleep in a chair next to him. His glasses are off—they’re sitting on a table beside the bed—and his head is tilted back on nothing. In the light from the window his hair almost looks like a halo. It’s uncombed and his clothes are rumpled—and oh, damn, there are bloodstains all over them. He hasn’t changed since last night.

“James?” Percival says.

“Percy!?” James’ eyes snap open and he jerks upright. “Thank Merlin! The healers said you’d wake up soon, but—”

“I know you’re worried about me, but can we please discuss you Apparating while stressed and carrying an injured man?” Percival interrupts. “That was unbelievably stupid. You could have been killed! You could have Splinched your head off!”

James rolls his eyes. “I didn’t, though,” he says.

There’s no arguing with the man. Percival changes the subject. “Is everyone else all right?”

“They called for backup,” James says. “The Director actually showed up to the fight, when he heard that a bunch of Junior Aurors tried to take on a creature-smuggling ring by themselves. He said he’d be by later to talk about your heroics.”

Percival processes that for a moment. “My heroics?”

“You jumped in front of a curse for me,” James says.

Oh.

Right.

“And then you blasted our way to the door,” James continues, “so everybody else could run.”

“I know that,” Percival says. “I was there, remember?” James keeps going, ignoring Percival. “And then you tried to stay behind and keep fighting, even though you were bleeding all over everywhere, and then you hexed some smuggler who tried to curse me, and then you tried to drag yourself on foot to the safe house—”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Yes!” James runs his hands through his hair so that it’s even wilder. “I know you want to be a good Auror, but you almost died, Percy! When I got to the safe house you wouldn’t wake up, and I thought—all I could think was that you were dead.”

Percival doesn’t know what to say to that. For a second, he stares at the sheets, trying to formulate a reply. He looks up and—is James—is James crying?

“James?”

“I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d—if you’d—” James covers his face with his hands.

Of course Percival has seen James serious before. They’re Aurors, it comes with the territory. But Percival has never—not once—seen his partner weep. It shakes Percival as nothing so far has done. He doesn’t know what to do except say, useless and helpless, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do that again,” James says violently, voice shaking. “Don’t just—don’t get yourself killed over people. I couldn’t stand it. Losing you would be—”

Percival leans over awkwardly, precarious over the gap between the edge of the bed and James’ chair, and pulls James’ hands away from his face. His eyes are red and he looks so lost and bereft that Percival’s heart tries to crack. “I’m right here,” Percival says. “Look at me. James, I’m right here. I’m alive.”

He somehow isn’t surprised when James launches himself onto the bed and wraps his arms around Percival as if to prevent him from throwing himself in front of any more curses. He’s crying on Percival’s shoulder now. His heart, Percival thinks, might have just broken. He runs a hand through James’ hair and holds on more tightly.

“Why are you so upset?” Percival asks. “I mean—I’m just another Auror, nothing special.”

James doesn’t even look up as he says, “I’m upset because I’m in love with you, you absolutely oblivious idiot.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

That…changes things.

“Well, damn,” Percival says, voice remarkably steady. “You know I took that curse for you because I’m in love with you, right?”

“Oh,” James says. He sits up and looks in Percival’s general direction. “Oh. That…changes things.”

Percival does not waste any more time on words. He’s spent far too long worrying about this, almost died, and it’s time he did something about it. So he does.

“You,” he says, when they finally come up for air, “are an absolutely oblivious idiot.”

“Well, it’s mutual,” James says. He’s smiling, and the world is good again. Percival doesn’t want to stop seeing the smile, but—he dives back in for another kiss anyway.

By the time that the Director shows up, Percival is pretty sure that he and James must look like they’ve been ravishing each other in the hospital bed, even though they’re both still fully dressed. James barely gets off the bed and into the chair before the door opens and several Aurors come inside. Judging by the barely-hidden smiles and Boone’s snort of amusement, it’s really obvious what they’ve been up to.

James scrambles to his feet as Dresden sweeps across the room to stand next to him. “Sir! Um.”

“As you were, McGuinness,” Dresden says tolerantly. He’s almost—but not quite—smiling.

“You didn’t have to come, sir,” Percival says, looking up at the Director. Apparently even James can’t quite get rid of this awkward admiration issue. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not here to check on your well-being,” Dresden says severely. “I’m here to tell you that if McGuinness here hadn’t ended up threatening to resign if I went through with it, I’d have had you tossed out of MACUSA on your ass. And I’m still considering it.”

All the blood drains from Percival’s face. He feels weak. “Wh-what?”

“You almost got yourself killed,” Ramirez says. “Kid. Aurors don’t have to die to prove a point.”

Dresden turns a gimlet eye on Ramirez, who shrinks a bit. “Stealing my thunder, Carlos?”

“Come off it,” O’Brien says. “You know we’d all tell him exactly the same thing.”

“We would,” the Director says, looking back down at Percival. “Graves, you’re a damn promising Auror. You and McGuinness here have the real makings of greatness—which is why I haven’t actually kicked you off the force yet. But you don’t get to be great by getting yourself killed.”

“I wasn’t trying to get killed,” Percival protests weakly. “I was just…trying to protect the others.”

Dresden sighs and rubs his forehead. “Doesn’t make it any better.”

Murphy slaps the Director on the arm. “Don’t let him get to you,” she says to Percival. She’s just his height, even though he’s sitting in a bed, and yet it still feels like having a dragon glare at him. “You should have seen him when we were Junior Aurors. Almost got killed more times than I want to count.”

“Learn from our mistakes, that’s all,” Dresden says, holding up a hand to forestall the incoming comments from the other three Aurors. “Aurors protect people. Can’t protect them if you’re dead.”

Since the Healers have given Percival a clean bill of health, he’s to take a day’s leave and then be back the next day on time with bells on if he knows what’s good for him. He and James will be on paperwork duty for at least two weeks, and if they get into any more serious scrapes Dresden threatens to demote them all the way to Wand Permits until they can get some sense.

“Oh, and Graves, McGuinness,” Dresden says, pausing on his way out of the room, “you both might want to invest in scarves and high collars, unless you want to flaunt your fraternization in front of the entire Department.”

James turns bright red and Percival feels like he’s about the same. The Senior Aurors burst into uproarious laughter as they make their exit, still audible even after the doors have closed. “We maybe should look into that suggestion,” Percival says, eyeing the…profusion of love bites on James’ neck.

“I’ll give you one thing: you’re damn thorough when you decide to do a job,” James says. He takes a long look at Percival’s neck and laughs. “Though I think I held my own.”

Percival raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Want to prove that?”

James grins beatifically. “Sure,” he says.

Paperwork or not, the future looks particularly bright right now. Percival will go on carrying James’ spare glasses, and James will go on telling Percival bad metaphors to make him laugh, and they’ll go on watching each other’s backs. Percival can’t ever imagine being happier than he is, right now, today. At long last, he feels like everything is going to be all right. He and James will be giants.

**Author's Note:**

> The inevitable footnote!
> 
> Ilvermorny class system: Grades, not years. ’Murica, fuck yeah! :D
> 
> Just imagine the female Aurors trailing round in dresses like this [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a6/97/fa/a697fa5f7f88faa080071f066f46b806.jpg), [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/66/b8/6d/66b86d2de831ae0919dbf2a6fe8ec62a.jpg), or [these](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/51/9d/bc/519dbc26661aa359d0293035b2e8802d.jpg). This was the early 1900s, the end of La Belle Époque, the Gilded Age! For women, dresses are wasp-waisted and flowing, the last time that day wear will be quite so elaborate for a long time. From here, hemlines rise and corsets become increasingly optional (notably, young flappers actually TAKE OFF THEIR CORSETS AND LEAVE THEM AT A DEDICATED CORSET CHECK when they go dancing). Men’s wear is…largely the same. Boooooring.
> 
> The other Aurors: I drew on American folklore, the Original Twelve, the Dresden Files, and Betsy-Tacy (of all things--I had the book sitting next to me) for names. Because I’m bad at names and characters. So yes: that IS Harry Dresden, Karrin Murphy, and so on. If you're curious about the name Stormalong: that's a piece of intriguing Massachusetts folklore about a thirty-foot-tall man who captained the Tuscarora and had many wild and outlandish adventures, including multiple tangles with the Kraken. 
> 
> Also, what is it with wizards and long melodramatic coats? Like…Harry Dresden’s duster and Percival Graves’ coat are probably related.


End file.
